


Silent Insurance

by jenna221b



Series: BT Tower Telephone Group D [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (which Aziraphale tries to ignore), Angst, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), BT Tower Telephone, Bathing/Washing, Do It With Style Events, Do It With Style Telephone Event (Good Omens), Foreshadowing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Victorian era, things going unsaid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26651050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna221b/pseuds/jenna221b
Summary: At first, he doesn’t think it’s Crowley at all. But then, his stomach twinges, and a wave of palpable distress surges, makes Aziraphale look again, and— itisCrowley. His hair is so wet that it almost looks charcoal rather than his usual vibrant red.Aziraphale stands. “Crowley?”It is quite clear that Crowley doesn’t want to be spotted at all. His shoulders hunch inwards, like he is instinctively defending himself, before he straightens up. The bravado is painfully thin. He raises his hand, and gives a weak, quickly aborted wave, but not quick enough to hide its trembling.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: BT Tower Telephone Group D [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1937851
Comments: 17
Kudos: 117





	Silent Insurance

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [doubt that the sun doth move](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26648641) by [demonicxiconic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonicxiconic/pseuds/demonicxiconic). 



**1861**

“It’s as grim as the Flood itself out there!” a patron calls, with raucous laughter.

 _Not quite_ , Aziraphale thinks. Still, spending his evening in a dank pub while a storm rages outside isn’t the most pleasant thing, he must admit. But, there’s a persistent feeling in his gut that he needs to be here. He sits forward in his seat, and scrutinises every newcomer.

At first, he doesn’t think it’s Crowley at all. But then, his stomach twinges, and a wave of palpable distress surges, makes Aziraphale look again, and— it _is_ Crowley. His hair is so wet that it almost looks charcoal rather than his usual vibrant red.

Aziraphale stands. “Crowley?”

It is quite clear that Crowley doesn’t want to be spotted at all. His shoulders hunch inwards, like he is instinctively defending himself, before he straightens up. The bravado is painfully thin. He raises his hand, and gives a weak, quickly aborted wave, but not quick enough to hide its trembling. He moves closer.

And then, coins are spilling through Crowley’s fingers, scattering across the table.

“I’ll get the first round in, angel,” Crowley says, too blithely. His fingers grasp ineffectually, no doubt numb with cold, as he scrabbles to pick up the coins.

“Certainly not,” Aziraphale says. He keeps his voice carefully measured, and hands the coins back, gently curling Crowley’s fingers over them. He notices with a swell of protectiveness that Crowley’s skin feels like ice. “Something warm, that’s what you need,” he adds. He shepherds Crowley into a seat before heading to the bar.

Aziraphale returns with only one glass of whisky—he doesn’t want to be here any longer than he must be, and he has the overwhelming instinct that this pub is not the best place for Crowley, in any case. He needs somewhere warm, and quiet, and private.

Aziraphale sets the drink down, sits opposite Crowley, and freezes in place. There are tears on Crowley’s cheeks. He swipes at them with still trembling fingers, as if angry at himself, his teeth clenched together.

Aziraphale fights past the urge to ask _Whatever’s happened?_ He knows that right now, at this very moment, it cannot help. Instead, with a honed thought, he urges all around them to _Look away, give him peace_. He pushes the drink closer, until Crowley’s breathing calms slightly, enough for him to take a very shaky sip.

Aziraphale waits, through Crowley clearing his throat, and roughly swiping at his face with a sodden sleeve.

“S-sorry,” Crowley says. He sniffs sharply. “Just… a long day. Won’t happen again. Actually, forget it ever happened.”

What utter nonsense.

“Oh, do come back to the shop,” Aziraphale insists. Saying it out loud still has that pleasant rush to it; the novelty that, for now, he has a place that is _safe_ , that is his, that could be theirs. “I’ll hail a cab.”

*

“Thank you,” Crowley says, barely a whisper.

At hearing those forbidden words, Aziraphale understands that this has also been branded as another night they will not talk about. He sighs, and refills the jug with water. As he pours it over Crowley’s head, he notes with relief that there is a tinge of colour returning to Crowley’s skin. “Tell me if it’s too hot.”

“Mm, it’s perfect.” Some tension finally bleeds out of Crowley’s shoulders, and he leans back in the bath. He’d tried to joke, when Aziraphale miracled it into the room, that the books would get damp. _Damn the books_ , Aziraphale almost said. _Damn the lot of it, anything that has left you cold, and shaking, and lost. It’s not right._

They hardly talk. Aziraphale is left to flounder and guess, fill in the gaping blanks from Crowley’s non-committal answers:

“What were you doing, out and about on a night like this?”

“Thinking.”

 _Really, how am I meant to help_ , Aziraphale bites back, _if you won’t tell me?_ For he realises he cannot, in any sort of good conscience, be frustrated with Crowley for being so bloody vague. After all, he holds so very many things back too. Sometimes he thinks his entire vocabulary is cut-off sentences.

As the clock strikes the late hour, Aziraphale clicks his fingers. In an instant, the bath blinks out of the room, Crowley left clothed, and dry. While Crowley settles on the couch, Aziraphale makes tea, and keeps up a murmur of conversation. It’s mostly prattle about which customers have been particularly troublesome.

“You’re awful at small-talk,” Crowley says, with a very tired, fond smile. He is so obviously falling asleep that Aziraphale can only smile back.

Rain batters against the windows. Crowley starts, forcibly wrenching himself back into wakefulness. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to… I’ll leave soon.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “If you think for one moment that I’m sending you out in _that_ , then I’m afraid you don’t know me very well at all.”

The easy part is continuing to talk, stopping only when Crowley’s eyelids drift shut, and do not open again. But, in the silence, he cannot avoid his own thoughts.

Beside the couch, the jug remains. It would be silly, frivolous, to make it disappear when it will no doubt be used again. Quietly, Aziraphale bends down, his fingertips brush against the porcelain—

“There must be something I can do?” Aziraphale had dared to ask. “Anything.”

And, apart from the occasional shiver, Crowley had stilled. He stared at the jug of water like it suddenly held all the answers. He swallowed, and shook his head. What if… surely not…

Aziraphale shudders, and banishes the jug out of existence. He locks away the terrible thought too, before it can settle and creep through him, like ice in his veins. He focuses on giving Crowley gentle, barely-there dreams, easing him into that sought-after place of truly deep and restful sleep—and tries to blot out the brewing storm.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first of 3 fics I wrote for this event (I'll post the rest over the weekend! <3)-- It was such a fun challenge! Thank you for reading, have a lovely weekend! x

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Compromised](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26654047) by [Augenblickgotter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Augenblickgotter/pseuds/Augenblickgotter)




End file.
